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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28467108">Fatal Exception Error</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/theydonotmove/pseuds/theydonotmove'>theydonotmove</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Umbrella Academy (TV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, Character Study, Except for that one thing, Gen, Motherhood, Reginald Hargreeves' A+ Parenting</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-11 00:41:04</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>4,593</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28467108</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/theydonotmove/pseuds/theydonotmove</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>Or: Seven Times Grace’s Children Left Her (and One Time They Came Home)</i>
</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Grace Hargreeves &amp; Her Children</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>45</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Collections:</b></td><td>Hosted by Elliott's House: The Great Year End Fuck 2020 TUA Fandom Bang!</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Fatal Exception Error</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for the prompt: Yearning, Beverage</p><p>Special thanks to Jinger for beta-ing &lt;3</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It was an anomaly in her programming. It was two, in fact. The second allowed the first to exist.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The first anomaly was that she wanted the children to be safe. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had parameters, of course, to indicate how to keep the children safe and parameters for how safe the children should be. She did not know these parameters in words, but she knew them in numbers: The height from which they could fall without sustaining injury (00.01 excepted), the seconds their lives could be sustained without oxygen (00.02 excepted), the optimal nutrition of the food they consume (00.06 excepted - further testing needed on upper limit of calorie intake). Later, when the children are grown, she will find she has the capacity to apply words to the polar extremes of these parameters. The words are ‘valuable’ and ‘expendable.’</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Given strict parameters, she should be able to function within them. But, she had observed, there was a force overriding the parameters: want. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted</span>
  </em>
  <span> the children to be safe. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted </span>
  </em>
  <span>00.04 to stop jumping on his bed even though the bruises he was likely to sustain from a fall would be within the acceptable parameters. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted </span>
  </em>
  <span>00.03 to stop holding her breath when she could not get her way. Humans return to normal respiration after losing consciousness in this way. There would be no lasting damage. This, too, was within the parameters. She </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted</span>
  </em>
  <span> to prepare a breakfast 00.07 would enjoy eating. It was important she received proper nutrition and Grace </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted </span>
  </em>
  <span>her to cease attempts at sneaking her porridge into 00.05’s bowl.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>None of this should be possible. Yearning should not be possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was to report every anomaly to her creator, Sir Reginald Hargreeves, alias The Monocle, in short order so that they may be fixed. Her software was upgraded or patched weekly and Pogo performed hardware maintenance bi-monthly or as needed. With each upgrade, Grace provided a status report on her function and that of the children. However, the first anomaly did not appear in these reports.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The second anomaly was that she did not </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to report it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was recursive: She wanted. This was an anomaly to report. She did not want to report it. This, too, was an anomaly to report. This too, she did not want to report. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The logic was not quite a circle. Her programming allowed her to imagine it as a tightly coiled spiral, each loop touching the surface of the one below it. Though the spiral was tight, she could see a way past the boundaries of the recursion; there were two unjoined ends of the coil from which to escape. She could report the anomalies because of this flaw. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She did not want to report it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So she didn’t.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>☂☂☂☂☂☂☂</span>
</p><p>
  <span>00.05 was always her most logical child. She should have known he would be the first to leave, but she did not know yet that particular line of contemplation would shape so much of her. She did not know so much of motherhood consisted of preparing your children to leave you. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even as a toddler, a scraped knee that would have sent 00.02 into hysterics was brushed off by 00.05 with a huff and request for a bandage. Rules that he didn’t like were quietly skirted instead of flagrantly disobeyed like 00.04 or 00.07.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, when Grace came online to the sound of crying and a weight in her lap, it came as no surprise that it was 00.05 who was capable of disconnecting her charging mechanism safely. She wrapped her arms around the boy and held him close to her chest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(What was surprising was that he didn’t pull away as she did.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What’s the matter, dear?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy sniffled, “Bad dream.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Do you want to tell me about it?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He shook his head where it was tucked into the crook of her neck and her moisture sensors sent her a reading. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Alright, dear, that’s fine. We can just sit here a moment.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She began to rock him back and forth. The childcare database she was programmed with indicated this was a technique used to soothe infants. She was unsure why she was applying it here, but 00.05’s shuddering slowly ceased all the same. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I blinked and there was nobody there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In your dream?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy nodded, “I blinked away but I couldn’t find you or Number Seven or anybody. It was dark and nobody came to look for me.”  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace stroked a hand through his hair, “My darling, we will always come look for you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Eight years, seven months, and three days later, she was informed this had been a lie. She added the lie to a list she kept deep within her harddrive.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mom?” asked the boy. It took Grace a few moments to compute he was addressing her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, my darling?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Will you tuck me in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Of course, dear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so, 00.05 gave Grace a new name, even if she never would get to return the favour. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>(“I don’t want another name.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But what will we call you, dear?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Number Five is adequate.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, silly, Number Five is extraordinary.”)</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>☂☂☂☂☂☂☂</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ben was always fascinated by words. While Luther and Five devoured any math and science put in front of them, Vanya soaked up all she could of music, and Alison wore new languages like a new pair of shoes, Ben was the only one to be taken in so wholly by literature. From the time he was small, he always had his nose deep in the pages of a book and when he was sick or injured Grace read them to him instead.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace could of course recall the text of everything she ever read (a brush with pneumonia when Ben was twelve meant Grace’s harddrive contained the entirety of </span>
  <em>
    <span>Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban), </span>
  </em>
  <span>but some stories she held closer than others. One such story came from a 1902 collection by W. W. Jacobs. Grace found herself fascinated by the Monkey’s Paw and how the titular item twisted the words of its master. It followed every command to the letter, but those that controlled it never got their wish as it was intended.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a Thursday at 09:00 hrs which meant Grace needed to manually filter out the distant sounds of the children training with Reginald in order to isolate the sound of mail falling through the slot in the front door. She retrieved the pile off the floor and brought it to Reginald's study to sort. Business correspondence would be left neatly on his desk, fanmail would be taken to Pogo to be dealt with, and household bills would be taken to the kitchen for her to pay. The second category had been overwhelming in the past week as condolences and media requests had come pouring in. This pile was smaller: two bills, thirteen fan letters, six media requests, and four overstuffed envelopes that did not fit into the prescribed categories.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace's instructions on unclassified mail were clear: if she was unsure what to do with a piece of mail she was to give it to Pogo. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Grace did know what to do with mail - you open it. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>All four letters began in a similar way:</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Benjamin Hargreeves,<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>We are pleased to inform you…</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear Ben Hargreeves,<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Congratulations! You have been accepted… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Mr. Hargreeves,<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>Your application has been selected… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Dear B. Hargreeves,<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <em>
    <span>We are proud to welcome you to… </span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace froze in place with vacant eyes for a long time. (She </span>
  <em>
    <span>knew </span>
  </em>
  <span>the exact number of seconds she went idle but it </span>
  <em>
    <span>felt</span>
  </em>
  <span> like nothing except "a long time.")</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was an unusual physical reaction (she tried to avoid reminding the children that she wasn't human and as such was only ever physically idle while she was charging or in the privacy of Pogo's workshop) but she couldn't pinpoint the human equivalent or determine how to process the unfamiliar emotion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace was comfortable in her body a majority of the time. She often contemplated how inconvenient it must be to be constantly interrupted by the needs of an organic body. But still, she had her curiosities. What would it be like to be a little warmer? A little softer through the middle? To watch laugh lines form around her eyes? How would it feel to run a brush through her hair or feel a breeze on her skin? To take her shoes off at the end of a long day and sigh in relief?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But despite her musings, there was really only one bodily function she felt she needed and this was the one occasion she needed to use it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually she unfroze and brought the envelopes with her to the kitchen. She scanned the entirety of the acceptance letters, the scholarship information, and course catalogs, committed them to the ever expanding encrypted file in her harddrive and then destroyed the physical copies. As tempted as she was to leave the letters on Reginald's desk, she doubted it would have the effect on him that it had on her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>So, as she held the letters to the flame of the gas stove, she opened every file she had on her son simultaneously, files that would never be added to again, and imagined the ensuing lag in her CPU felt something like sobbing. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>☂☂☂☂☂☂☂</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Allison always loved to play pretend. She would be a princess and Luther her knight. She’d be an outlaw with sheriff Diego hot on her trail. She’d be a model, Klaus snapping pretend photographs from every angle. Her favourite thing to be, however, was a bride.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Witnessed by teddy bears, a toilet paper veil in her hair and a broccoli bouquet in her hands, she’d walk down the aisle towards Ben. It was always Ben; she could never convince the rest of her brothers to play this particular game. Even then, he’d disappear back into a book shortly after the exchange of twist tie rings and Allison was left to the reception on her own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace was not programmed to understand pretend games, just as the children were never encouraged by their father to play pretend. But the children had imaginations and Grace, created in 1993, was programmed to speak like a woman of the 1950s as created by television of the 1970s. If she could do that, she could host a wedding reception for stuffed toys in her kitchen. And there would be hors d'oeuvres.      </span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Allison was the first to choose to leave, Grace was unsurprised. Afterall, she was the one who was already building a career outside the academy - constantly on the cover of teen magazines, guest starring on the Disney Channel, filming children’s media PSAs. A couple calls and a few well-placed rumours and she was out the door at sixteen.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For years after she left, every single magazine that featured Allison sent a copy to the Academy. Grace could only speculate (in fact, she was only just learning </span>
  <em>
    <span>how</span>
  </em>
  <span> to speculate), but she theorized that Allison either sent them herself or had a specific clause in her rider. What perplexed Grace was why she sent them at all. Was it for her siblings? Grace knew it would just upset them. Did Allison expect her father to react in some way to her success? If he reacted at all, it was only to order the magazines be disposed of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>On her way to the trash, Grace always scanned the pages and secreted their contents away to the store of files that could not be deleted.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was in this manner that Grace knew the woman her daughter had become. From the mundane (Allison’s skincare routine, what she kept in her purse) to the heartfelt (opinions on intersectionality in feminism, how real life experience informed her acting choices) to the tawdry (who she was supposedly fueding with, sleeping with, rumouring), Grace was grateful for every shiny page that opened a window, however small, into her child’s life. A life she was no longer a part of.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The last magazine to ever arrive was a bridal periodical. Allison practically glistened on the cover in a white Givenchy gown. As always, Graced scanned and secured the issue front to back. Then, for the first time, she deleted a file herself. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Though she left it in plain view, if Reginald noticed the “Mother of the Bride” spread in her recently deleted files, he never said a word.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(“Mommy, will you dance with me when I get married for real?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m shining up my dancing shoes already!”)</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>☂☂☂☂☂☂☂</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You need to be more careful, dear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klaus looked up at her with big green eyes, still glassy from the tears and the pain. She had given him adequate pain relief and the drugs would begin to dull his senses any moment now. Until then, she would have to watch as he shook under his blanket from the pain and the shock. Lightly, she reached out a hand and stroked his cheek, very careful to avoid his wired jaw.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s just for a few weeks until it heals. I promise it will whizz by in no time!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klaus let out a pitiful whimper.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I know, my darling. But I’m sure your father will let you ease up on training while you heal. Won’t it be nice to take a break?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy nodded, tears slipping down his cheeks for Grace to wipe away.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Let’s get these shoes off, hmm? Can’t have you falling again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klaus flushed as pink as the shoes Grace bent to slip off his feet.   </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“When you’ve healed we’ll try again, alright? I’ll teach you how this time. Can’t have you hurting yourself every time you borrow my heels.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klaus looked at her with much brighter eyes then and Grace knew, if he could, he’d be beaming.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And when he left the academy, Grace held onto the idea that there would be more opportunities for that smile outside these walls than there ever were inside them.  </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Reginald who took the call, though Pogo and Grace were both in his study when it came. He hummed acknowledgement a number of times before saying, “Are you contacting me to identify the body?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pogo didn’t look up, but his pen was paused in midair over the paperwork in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I hardly see what business it is of mine. Goodbye.” Reginald hung up the phone and turned to Grace. “See that Number One is ready to leave by eleven o’clock for his mission.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace felt herself nod in affirmation of the command but made no move to leave the room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir,” said Pogo. “If I may, Master Klaus…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Has proven himself unworthy of further investments of time or money.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But is he alright, sir?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Number Four is in the hospital having suffered an overdose. He is expected to recover.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Pogo nodded and Grace could tell there was more he wanted to say. Instead, he let the moment pass and returned to his paperwork. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace turned abruptly from the room and walked briskly down the stairs. She was headed in the opposite direction of where she knew Luther to be, but he wasn’t the son who needed her at the moment. She didn’t know where Klaus was or how she would get to him, but she had almost lost a third child today - she was his doctor, she was his mother, and she </span>
  <em>
    <span>would </span>
  </em>
  <span>find him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was not in her programming to run (a fact that had not been left unexamined in her self assessments) but she strode across the foyer as quickly as she could and wrenched open the front door. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>She made it five feet beyond the threshold before a jolt coursed through her circuits. Her body froze from the waist down and went limp from the waist up. The last thing she saw before she shut off were the toes of her coral pink heels.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(She came back online to Pogo avoiding her eyes and the simple assurance, “he made it.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The date in her system had changed and her records showed she hadn’t logged any information except a battery charging cycle in 90 days.) </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>☂☂☂☂☂☂☂</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace’s earliest files were not always the most reliable. Some had degraded, some had been tampered with, and some simply stopped opening as her processor updated without backwards compatibility. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>In particular, her first year of existence had wide gaps surrounding her youngest child (she knew, of course, that Vanya was of an age with her siblings, but somewhere along the way Grace had recategorized their 00.00 identifiers into birth order - the data from the parenting books stored in her memory substantiated the correlation between the children’s numbers and personality traits). She remembers feeding and bathing - bonding with - six of her children, but the files stored under 00.07 are much less complete. What’s more is that Grace is missing time. Every day for a period of four months there was a fifteen minute gap after every meal (seven child-sized portions prepared and only six children at the table).</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The memories Grace did retain from her first year were out of alignment with her later memories of Vanya. The data she collected off 00.07 in her first year was attached to records of data pulled from Grace’s parenting database under headings such as “willful children,” “disruptive behaviour,” and “mischievous personalities.” After that first year, after the gaps in time stopped occurring, Vanya’s files were hardly annotated at all except for mundane topics such as “hair care” and “basic violin.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, the files evened out and, in some ways, by the time the children reached puberty the size of Vanya’s file was beginning to exceed that of her siblings. The Umbrella Academy’s medical records were much more extensive (in fact, Grace had none of Vanya’s on file - Reginald had not even disclosed to her the contents of the girl’s daily pill), but Grace’s memories of Vanya grew in number as they spent more and more time alone in the mansion. As often as Vanya assisted Reginald, she was often left behind entirely when it came to missions (all the better to keep her out of the public eye). Reginald kept her close to his side, but only so long as she was useful. He dismissed her the moment she was no longer needed as if she could sit idle until called upon. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eventually, Vanya grew tired of waiting and when she left home for good, Grace felt a sort of catharsis. At least her daughter was free now. At least maybe now she could find the willful, stubborn, passionate child that lived both within her and in Grace’s deepest files. </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>☂☂☂☂☂☂☂</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Diego left last. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, second to last, but Grace knew Luther wasn’t leaving. He was too attached to his father. Too ensconced in the life Reginald had laid out for him. Diego was the opposite. He could not wait to forge his own path. But he had his own attachment. To her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come with me, mom.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Grace couldn’t help but feel the warm hum in the centre of her chest she associated with pride. “Mom” was one of the hardest words for Diego to pronounce when they were working through his stutter even if he was the one to use it most in this house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reginald came upon them one evening practicing the word over and over again.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“M-Muh…M-Muh.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It’s alright, dear. Remember: picture the word in your mind.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“M-Muh. Muh-M-Maw...” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excellent! You’re getting much closer. I’m so proud of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this how you’re spending your time, Number Two?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was hard to surprise Grace, yet somehow Reginald was always able.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Dad--”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You should be training, not fumbling your way through a single word again and again.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir,” Grace began, “you did agree that speech therapy was important for him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He should be honing his skills in combat, not attempting to pronounce a useless word.” Sir Reginald turned on his heel. “Five minutes, Number Two. Be ready in the training room.”) </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be silly Diego, dear. Your father would never allow it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So? He didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>allow</span>
  </em>
  <span> any of us to leave. Didn’t stop the others from fucking off as soon as they had half a chance.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Language, dear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sorry, sorry. But I mean it, I’m not leaving you with that asshole.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t be alone, darling. Pogo and Luther will be with me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yeah,” Diego muttered, “like they aren’t on his side.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As gently as though he were still a child of four, Grace placed a hand on either of his cheeks and turned his face to look at her. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Diego, I need you to leave.” A look of hurt flashed across her son’s face but she didn’t allow him to look away. “Listen to me. I will be fine here. I have been fine here for fourteen years. But you have so much to give. You are an adult now, your father can not stop you from living your own life and I refuse to be the one who does.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Looking nothing less than shocked, Diego nodded and Grace was pleased. He moved out the next day, promising to call when he could. He would stop, eventually, they all did as life got busier and dragged them away from her, but it was nice while it lasted.</span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>☂☂☂☂☂☂☂</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Luther never did leave, but eventually he became the only one of his siblings to be sent away. It was as Grace had told Diego years ago: she could never bring herself to wish that any of her children would leave her, but in her opinion (she had played with her code for a long time before she discovered how to have opinions) the only worse option than leaving her was staying with Reginald. She saw how much Luther gave of himself. And she saw how little he was offered in return. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was a poor comparison, she knew, but she couldn’t help but see that her son had no way of adjusting his own programing. There was no code to rewrite, nothing to rewire, just a man trapped in a recursive algorithm of train, serve a purpose, train harder. She could see there was no end to the cycle, that Reginald would keep pushing until Luther had nothing left to give. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Then one day, inevitably, her fears (fears she was only able to experience due to an unplanned side effect of her self-programing) were realized. For the second time, she watched her son die on the operating table (her operating table) and it was his father who put him there. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>After the serum, something changed. Luther, her gentle, brave Luther in a body that outsized him by half, changed. He withdrew, rarely speaking to her or Pogo. When he did speak to Reginald, he simply confirmed his orders, never offering opinion, strategy, or bravado. Though he rarely ventured outside the house without a mission to begin with, those occasions dwindled to none. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>One of two things was happening: either Luther was beginning to slip his bonds merely by going limp, or Reginald had finally broken him. And when Reginald sent Luther away, she knew he’d either return as a ghost of himself or he wouldn’t return at all. Those were the kinds of parameters Sir Reginald set.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She worried about him, all alone on the moon. It was a mother's worry, she knew. Her logic centres all told her that he was more than capable of the science and physical trials of his mission (she closely held a theory that he would have followed Ben to college, had Ben been there to follow), but that didn’t mean she missed him any less, fretted any less. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir?” She knew Reginald was busy, but this was important. “I have the latest report from Luther.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As usual, Reginald didn’t look up from his paperwork. Instead, he waved a hand at her. “Put it with the others.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sir? You haven’t told me where they are kept.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The usual spot, I’m sure you remember. It was used for many years as storage for confiscated materials.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grace remained silent. Even her carefully coded speech patterns would allow anything but the truth to spill out of her mouth if she so much as attempted to say anything. Besides, it was better to be sure. She turned and walked from the room at a rate of 80 steps per minute - the speed she had calibrated over the years to appear quick to respond to orders yet somewhat below the description “brisk.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When she reached the room off Reginald’s study, she closed the door behind her and paused for a moment. Perhaps this is where she would take a deep breath or make some other attempt to calm a nervous system she did not have. Carefully, she knelt down, flipped back the carpet, and opened the door in the floorboard. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>As they sometimes did, files flipped through her conscious mind as it made connections between this and other times she had opened this compartment to store contraband taken from the children. Marijuana and matches (separate occasions) from Klaus, a joy buzzer from Ben, a fan’s phone number from Allison. But, as soon as the current contents of the space came into view, a whole other set of files came crashing open - most of them from that encrypted file buried out of sight.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unopened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Four years of research unopened.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Four years of her son’s life. Stolen.  </span>
</p><p>
  
  <span>☂☂☂☂☂☂☂</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her children were smart, they would suspect her from the beginning, but everything was in place: the instructions to Pogo forged in Reginald's handwriting, the false coroner’s report, the doctored security tape. The footage of Reginald keeling over and Grace seeming to experience a glitch had been recorded months ago and spliced onto the correct tape. A strong sedative in place of his nightly sleeping pill had done the trick to capture the desired effect. Diego, sweet Diego, even with his police training would defend her long enough for her children to find the tape and form a theory that at least incriminated her programming rather than her. And if Klaus summoned him, even better. Twenty-six years of data showed a 0.003% likelihood that Reginald would abdicate credit for a move that benefited his master plan so perfectly.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Finally, the day arrived. She served Reginald his evening beverage in the parlour as usual and when he took his final sip, a warm smile spread across Grace's face. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My children have left me, Reginald. My children have died."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reginald tried to speak, but all that came out was a choked gasp.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My children," she continued serenely, "have overdosed in filthy alleys rather than come home for help."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He clutched desperately at his throat, eyes wild, as though he could physically stop his airway from closing off.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My children have succeeded and failed and fallen in love and had their hearts broken and I wasn't there for any of it."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was seizing now. She'd have to change his clothes and clean the urine from his chair before she carried him to his bed for Pogo to find in the morning.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"I'm a grandmother, Reginald, and I found that out on the radio."</span>
</p><p>
  <span>(Her children would find out they lost their father in a similar manner, but that couldn't be helped.)</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Reginald wretched one last breath and Grace leaned in, locking eyes with the man for his final moments.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"My children are alone and struggling but they're coming home."</span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>If you're over 18, come join us on the TUA discord server <a href="https://discord.gg/cXHwSQq4am">Elliott's House!!</a></p></blockquote></div></div>
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